


the way you and i wait

by kokirane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Childhood Friends, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 16:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokirane/pseuds/kokirane
Summary: Shiro returns to his hometown, and to Keith.





	the way you and i wait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunatual](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lunatual).



> for lunatual.

On the bus home, Shiro falls asleep. 

There was a dream he used to have when he was younger. Eighteen -- not that long ago, but somehow lifetimes away. Thinking back to it feels like a memory of an old movie, one he used to be fond of but can’t quite remember. It was maybe the happiest he had ever been: done with school, spending his last summer days with the boy next door.

The week before he had to go, the dreams began. Dreams where he was brave, where he and Keith could turn towards each other and say things like  _ I love you, so let’s be together.  _

But he never said it. Keith did, in his own way: he made Shiro a scrapbook, sent care packages, texted and Skyped and spoke with the softest, sweetest voice. He came to Shiro’s induction as the youngest pilot at the Garrison, held onto his arm and looked up at him with shining eyes and lips. Shiro was on top of the world. It felt like enough. 

And then he lost his arm.

Being brave became more than a dream. It became -- impossible.

He withdrew. He stopped picking up. Keith’s calls eventually tapered off, and as much as it kills him, Shiro doesn’t do anything about it. Keith still texts on birthdays and holidays; if he feels up to it, Shiro texts back. He usually doesn’t. 

He hasn’t let himself think of Keith in a long time. He  _ wanted  _ to, but after a while, thoughts of Keith stung and smarted and he didn’t want to build up a memory so desperately. Even if they wouldn’t be seeing each other again. 

Not when Keith deserved so much better. 

Now, inevitable, unavoidable, the dream presses through again. Keith is standing on the porch steps, right where Shiro had last left him. The openness, the poetry of Keith’s face makes him physically ache. He feels  _ so close,  _ like the years and miles between them evaporated. Keith has a way of making everything seem so simple, and Shiro misses it palpably. 

But the dream is not so kind to give Shiro his arm back. He looks down at his metal hand, and clenches it tight. He wishes it would hurt. 

It’s too late. Even if it isn’t real, he still can’t say it.

Keith speaks. 

“I missed you.” Keith gives a quick half-smile. He doesn’t come closer, waits for Shiro to come to  _ him.  _ And Shiro always will, a faithful moon charmed into Keith’s orbit. Keith’s smile strikes him like a faint constellation, and Shiro can’t find his way without it.  

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says. “I’m here now.”

The words come automatically, easily. In this dream, it’s okay. He can be there for Keith and nothing is screaming at him yet to get back, to stop. He knows his words are weak, fragile, but the way Keith grins is like he treasures their light weight anyway.

Keith loops his arms around Shiro’s neck. “I’m taller than you now. It’s been that long.” 

“Yeah, right,” Shiro says, and he can’t help himself. It’s too good, too easy to wrap around Keith’s waist and pull him down the steps, flush to where he could kiss Keith’s forehead if he wanted to. 

It’s what Shiro wants more than anything. He thinks Keith wants it too, with the way he’s peering at him, smirking.

Keith’s smile always slants a little. Keith’s dad used to bake them chocolate chip cookies. They would take them, still hot, and vanilla ice cream and sit outside; the dream tilts and shifts, and Shiro’s alone. He’s sitting with a plate of cold cookies, lost and aching for Keith in his arms again. 

“Hello?” He shouts. He doesn’t want to call for Keith, but then he does. “Keith?” 

Shiro’s tongue presses up against the roof of his mouth on that  _ h.  _ He wishes his tongue was in Keith’s mouth, instead. 

It all fades. Shiro startles out of the dream as the bus comes to an abrupt stop. With a sigh, he tips his head against the window and watches the world come back into focus. 

Back to reality. 

If he couldn’t tell Keith that he loved him when he was whole, he sure as hell can’t tell him now. 

If Keith is home — Shiro swallows at the thought — maybe he can handle it. He can fake being okay while Keith is around.

Shiro exhales tiredly, rubs his eyes. 

He’s not sure if his heartbeat is rabbit-fast because he does or doesn’t want to see Keith. Either way, he’s fucked.

* * *

 

His grandpa’s house has a fresh paint job.

When Shiro had left, it had been a simple off-white. It’s a pale pink now, and the roof tiles are a soothing yellow. It looks like a slice of strawberry cheesecake. As Shiro comes closer, he sees that springs of blue flowers have been painted onto one of the walls. 

There’s only one person who would’ve done it. Shiro’s heart goes to his throat as he steps onto the porch steps. This is where his grandpa used to sit as he and Keith played in the yard as kids. This is where he and Keith said  _ see you later,  _ so positive it wasn’t ever going to be  _ goodbye _ . 

So much has changed. The house — everything — how could he come back like this? A lump rolls its way down Shiro’s throat, settles in his gut. 

The door opens, and his grandpa holds out his arms.

“Takashi.”

“Jiji,” Shiro says, voice small. He wants to feel like he’s just a kid again, but coming forward, his feet drag. He knows what he is now, and he doesn’t want anyone to see it. 

As if he could hide it. A metal arm, a white shock of hair hanging like surrender, a slash across his face. Eyes that can’t meet anyone anymore if he can help it. 

Jiji has always been a no nonsense kind of guy. He strides forward, brisk like autumn air, and clasps Shiro into his arms. Shiro outgrew Jiji years ago, but his grandfather’s presence is as towering as ever. 

“Takashi,” Jiji says. “Welcome home.”

Softly, he adds, “Chin up.”  

Shiro bends, leans his forehead against his grandfather’s shoulder. Jiji smells like coffee; Shiro can easily imagine him perched in his armchair, drinking and reading as sunlight shines gold on the pages. 

“Keith is here.” Jiji pats his back. “He helps around the house. I suggest you compose yourself.”

_ Keith is here? _

He thought he had prepared himself, but guilt rears its head eagerly,

“Oh,” Shiro says weakly. “You didn’t want to mention that earlier?” 

“Certainly not.” His grandfather’s eyes twinkle. “He’s become quite the handsome young man, you know.”

Shiro’s mouth is dry. “You say that like he wasn’t before.”

“Hey!”

Shiro’s mouth, if possible, gets drier. Keith stands in the doorway, and he’s — beautiful. More beautiful than Shiro ever could’ve imagined. His hair is longer, piled up in a messy bun and streaked with pinkish-red. The oversized red hoodie that Keith used to wear has been swapped out for a cropped red and white jacket. 

Then he smiles, and it’s the same. He still takes Shiro’s breath away. 

“Shiro.” Keith approaches --  a little carefully, but maybe Shiro’s imagining it -- and holds out a hand. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Shiro says. He lifts his hand, sees golden sunlight glint off silver metal -- hesitates. Keith’s gaze drops; his fingers clasp Shiro’s instantly. There’s that smile again, and god, Shiro doesn’t want to seize upon it so quickly, but he  _ does,  _ and he feels himself smile back.

Jiji clears his throat. “I will be inside. Shiro, Keith, you can take the bags to Shiro’s room. It’s been untouched.” 

With that, Jiji strides back into the house. Shiro keeps his gaze fixed on his grandfather’s back, the way his shoulders seem a little slimmer, a little hunched. He feels Keith looking at him, and tries not to turn his way. 

He turns. “I can handle the bags, don’t worry. I don’t want to bother.”

“Shut up,” Keith snorts. “We can split it, and then it’ll be just one trip.” 

Keith brushes past him to take two of the suitcases. Shiro follows with the other two a little slowly, trying to find his footing. The way Keith walks is different: he takes longer strides, relaxed and confident and open. Shiro feels fondness prick at his eyes. Keith’s really come into his own.

If only he had been there to see it instead of  -- 

“Shiro,” Keith calls, and Shiro snaps to attention. Keith’s looking back at him, warm smile on his face. “Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back,” Shiro says, and means it.

* * *

 

Keith, in the stubborn fashion Shiro’s getting quickly reacquainted with, helps him unpack his clothes. Shiro folds, Keith hangs. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro notices the fond little smile that Keith gets if he recognizes Shiro’s old jackets. They don’t fit anymore, but they’re from Jiji, so he’s kept them.

Keith finishes hanging the clothes and wanders over to the rest of the suitcases, reads their tags with an unconscious grin. Watching Keith is like rereading a favorite childhood novel: everything’s coming back to Shiro, in the shades of a rose and just as thorned.

“You have a first day suitcase?” Keith says. “That’s so like you.”

“Yeah.” Shiro picks up another shirt to fold, tries to focus on the motions. “My laptop and chargers and things like that.”

_ My pills,  _ his brain supplies unhelpfully. 

Keith hums, sits down next to Shiro. “Anything I can help with?” 

“I’m good,” Shiro says, and so Keith sits next to him in silence. He doesn’t say anything about Shiro folding too slow or too clumsy, but Shiro can’t help wondering if he’s thinking it. Still, it’s kind of nice to be alone with Keith. It always has been. They both fall into a rhythm, and Shiro tries to swallow his anxiety whenever Keith looks like he’ll say anything.

And then Keith starts singing. Low and off-key but it’s sweet -- it’s something he used to do on their bike rides and drives, automatic and unconscious. Shiro’s pretty sure the lyrics evolve into something new every time, but the tune is generally the same. 

He can’t help the twitch of his lips. “Are you singing about laundry?”

“Ain’t nothing better to sing about,” Keith says. “I guess I am.”

Keith tucks his hair behind his ear, and with it, he takes Shiro’s heart again. He’s seen Keith do that little motion almost every year of his life; he’s missed it. He’s missed so much -- and he doesn’t want to miss any more. 

The day he had fallen in love with Keith — fallen in love for the first time — was when he was eleven, already with something to prove, and wanted to climb the biggest tree in the park. It could’ve been the biggest tree in the world for all he knew.

Nobody thought he could do it. They hadn’t said it like  _ that,  _ but they were worried, fretting, and Shiro brushed them all off and began to climb. It was slow, sweat rolling down his back, and his muscles were burning. He felt like he was Icarus flying a little close to the sun, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to stop a couple times to rest, but he refused to look down.

And then he made it pretty far up, high enough where he thought he could see his window. He looked down, finally, through the green, and saw Keith still standing there. The others had left, but Keith jumped up and down, waving his arms. 

“You did it, Shiro!” 

“I did it!” Shiro had yelled back, triumphant. Keith had stopped and smiled, the setting sun painting his face with gold through the trees, smattering over his summer freckles. Shiro wished he had a camera.

Turns out that Keith had his, and he snapped a photo of Shiro up in the branches.

“I knew you could do it,” Keith said when Shiro was back on the ground. Shiro had taken those words, tucked them close. Over the years, he had collected more and more of Keith’s words, Keith’s smiles. Keith’s gentle  _ you’re gonna make it  _ when he thought he couldn’t go on, Keith’s hand squeezing his when that was all they could do for each other, when there was nothing else to say because loss was thick in their throats -- nothing else to hold onto but the fact that they had each other, and that wasn’t supposed to change. 

With Keith here, next to him again, Shiro doesn’t know why he ever thought Keith would leave. He  _ does  _ know, but — it’s  _ Keith,  _ sitting here like Shiro didn’t hurt him. 

He closes his eyes, and pushes the words past the desert in his throat. 

“Keith,” Shiro says. “I’m sorry.” 

Keith stiffens, puts down the half-folded shirt in his hands. When he turns towards Shiro, he softens. 

“Hey now,” Keith says gently. The dim light of the room paints him golden. “You’ve had a lot going on. It’s okay that you needed space.”

A pause, and then he says, “You know I’ll wait forever if you need it.”

“That’s not fair to you, Keith,” Shiro says. “You deserve so much better than that.” 

“Nothing’s better than you,” Keith says, gives a little laugh. “That’s what I thought -- that you deserved better, too. I was kind of lost without you, and I didn’t want to be like that.”

“Lost?” 

Keith shrugs. “Let’s just say I was a little too used to leaning on you.”

“I want you to be able to lean on me,” Shiro says. “I’m so sorry, Keith, God. I -- I should’ve been there for you.” 

“No, no, no.” Keith waves his hands. “It’s good. I grew up a little. And you helped, technically.”

“How?”

With a self-conscious twist to his lips, Keith explains, “You were still my strength, Shiro. I knew you were trying to heal, so I decided I would, too.” 

Keith’s voice cracks, and he finishes in a whispers, “I wanted to be someone who could stand with you, support you. And then somewhere along the line, I started doing things for myself, too. So. Don’t apologize.” 

“Keith,” is all Shiro can manage for a moment, awed and overwhelmed. “I’m proud of you.” 

“I’m proud of me, too,” Keith says. He reaches out, tentatively, and takes Shiro’s prosthetic hand. “And I’m proud of you. Don’t worry about me, okay?” 

“But I’m so good at it,” Shiro teases, even as his heart rate quickens and his breath turns shallow. 

“You and I both,” Keith says, a lilt to his words. “We have time, Shiro. Tell me when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Keith.” Shiro smiles and it feels  _ real.  _ “I want to hear about you.” 

“You will,” Keith says, squeezes Shiro’s hand. “There’s been a  _ lot.”  _

“Seems so,” Shiro says. “I want to hear about everything, if that’s okay.” 

“More than okay.” Keith’s smile sends stars exploding inside Shiro’s chest. He feels so full that he’s collapsing under it. 

“Cool.” Shiro smiles back tentatively. “What do you usually do around here? These days?” 

“We could go to dinner?” Keith suggests. “Not much around here, really. It’s mostly the same old. They renovated Coran’s, though.” 

“Oh, really?” Coran’s is a cozy little diner at the end of town, covered wall to wall with murals. The paintings all follow the theme of aliens, of all things, each one being its own little planet with its own life forms. Coran’s also has live shows, really tries to bring up the local talent.

With a warmth in his cheeks, Shiro remembers Keith had sung there a few times. He had never been so jealous of a microphone and a guitar before. 

“Yeah,” Keith says. “It’s like, futuristic now.”

“Aliens to futuristic,” Shiro says thoughtfully. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” 

“Yeah,” Keith smiles. “Coran and Allura are doing well. We could just drive around like we used to. Talk and all that.”

“Maybe another day,” Shiro says, wincing as he remembers how long the bus ride was. “I’d like that.” 

“Sure thing, Shiro.” 

“Is a movie and dinner okay? Tomorrow?” Shiro says. “Here?” 

“Gonna wine and dine me, Shiro?” Keith says. “Can you cook now?”

“God, no,” Shiro says, a bit rueful. “Even less than before.”

“Pizza from Hunk’s, then,” Keith says. “As if we ever did anything else.”

“Wonder if he remembers,” Shiro says, and Keith scoffs.

“Of course he does,” Keith says, quiet in his fierceness of his voice, loud in the way he turns to Shiro whipcord fast. A strand of hair gets stuck to his mouth. “Nobody’s forgotten you, Shiro. You’re their hero.”

“A hero,” Shiro repeats in disbelief. “ _ Why?”  _

“You’ve always been their hero,” Keith says. “And always will be.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say, and it must show on his face. 

“But that,” Keith fumbles, “is something that comes from inside, right? Still — I mean it. You’re amazing.” 

Shiro’s still fumbling for words when Keith’s phone rings. Keith gives an embarrassed smile before picking up. Shiro doesn’t realize how close they had been until Keith draws back. 

“Hey, mom. Uh-huh. Cool. Yeah, sure. Alright.” Unconsciously, Keith reaches out his free hand to close the distance, resting it on Shiro’s shoulder. “Bye. Love you too.” 

Heat goes to Shiro’s cheeks, hearing that. _Love,_ in Keith’s voice, right here, right now. He tucks it away. 

“Hey, my mom’s coming over,” Keith says apologetically. “I gotta go. But I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Shiro says. He stands, joints creaking, and follows Keith to the door. Jiji is sitting in the living room, watching TV. Shiro tries not to feel shy as he and Keith hover by the door. Keith looks like he doesn’t want to go; Shiro knows he doesn’t want him to. 

“Well,” Keith finally says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“It’s a date,” Shiro blurts, and Keith’s smile is blinding. It leaves Shiro stunned by the door, holding onto the frame, until Jiji speaks.  

“How was it?” Jiji says.

“Yeah.” Shiro flops onto the couch, welcomes how the fabric sinks to embrace him. “It was nice.”

“I’m glad,” Jiji says. “He was excited to see you again.”

“I feel bad,” Shiro says, more to the ceiling than to Jiji. “Leaving him like that. But I don’t know what to do.” 

Jiji gets up from his armchair, settles next to Shiro. Their shoulders meet; Shiro melts against him. His grandfather’s cheek presses into Shiro’s head. 

“When you get to my age,” Jiji says, and Shiro bites back a  _ I already look your age, but okay,  _ “you don’t want to have collected so many regrets that they consume you. You wish you had lived more, instead of waiting for something that never falls into your lap. Not unless you reach for it.” 

“Jiji,” Shiro says. “I already have regrets.” 

“I learned not to regret something what I once wanted.” Jiji moves so he can put his arm around Shiro. So frail, Shiro thinks, but still so firm. “It keeps your feet in the past, when you need to be moving forward. And you are.” 

Quietly, Jiji says, “Thank you for coming home.” 

“Thanks, Jiji,” Shiro sighs. They fall asleep like that, resting on each other in the sunlight. 

* * *

In this dream, they’re together. Shiro knows it, somehow, in a scene where his legs tangle with Keith’s as they lay under the stars. Nothing between them has changed, but something has  _ shifted _ , and Shiro knows -- Keith loves him.

Keith loves him, loves him, loves him. 

Keith leans his head on Shiro’s shoulder, and warmth spreads up to Shiro’s smile. He pulls Keith close, and the dream melts and fades and lives only as a whisper when he wakes. 

_ All that happened,  _ says the whisper,  _ is that you were brave.  _

* * *

The next day, Keith arrives armed with a charming smile and a pizza. He’s brought a tin of soup for Jiji, too, and catches up with him while Shiro painstakingly looks for matching plates and cups. Keith sidles up next to him and, more familiar with the layout, grabs two red plates and glasses.

“Complements the sauce.” Keith tried to be solemn, but his toothy grin ruins it. His hip bumps into Shiro’s; Shiro feels brave enough to bump back. 

He feels a new kind of energy today. He supposes it might be the weight lifted off his shoulders, the weight about Keith -- it’s replaced with that schoolboy excitement he always used to feel, free and unfurled again. 

Jiji shuffles over to lay a solemn hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “I’m going down to the store. Have fun, you two.”

Shiro swears that his grandfather  _ winks. _

Keith just laughs as Shiro sputters, bumping back into him again. “What did you want to watch?” 

“Is that even a question?”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Lemme guess --”

“Legendary Defender,” they both chorus.

“It’s just the perfect movie,” Shiro says. “No matter how many times you watch it.”

“I remember you said you always wanted to be like Sven,” Keith says, amused. 

“And you’re my Akira,” Shiro murmurs. Keith grins, stepping past him to go to the case of DVDs. The tips of his ears are red. 

There’s a crack of thunder, then.

Shiro damn near jumps out of his skin. He turns to Keith, chagrined, and finds Keith with a similar expression. Keith’s dropped the DVD in his hands. 

“You too?” Shiro ventures. 

“Just surprised,” Keith says. He scoops up the DVD and puts it on the table, frowns. “Shiro? You’re shaking.” 

He is. When he tries to find Keith, everything’s blurred. Out of focus, like a shifted camera lens. He can hear his own breaths, loud and sharp. Hears the screeching of metal all around him. 

“Hey, hey,” Keith says. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m here.” 

He puts his arm around Shiro, sits him down. Worried eyes come into focus. A mouth, swimming somewhere. “Shiro?” 

“Fuck,” Shiro says. It comes out like a wheeze. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no, don’t apologize.” Keith frowns. “Can I — do you need anything? Water?”

He shakes his head. His lungs are beginning to work again, his throat beginning to open. 

“Uh, maybe we could,” Keith begins, then laughs self-consciously. “Do you remember how we used to make pillow forts? When it would rain?” 

He does, distantly. Mainly, he remembers the glow of Keith’s eyes in lamplight. He remembers wanting to kiss him, even then, like he had seen in the movies. Just a press of lips. Just a way to say  _ I love you  _ wordlessly. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

“We can make one. How about that, huh?” Keith squeezes Shiro’s shoulder. “Just us again.” 

“Okay.” Shiro nods. He exhales, shakily. 

While Keith collects pillows and blankets, Shiro checks up on Jiji. Turns out he’s hanging at Keith’s next door with Krolia. 

Shiro’s sigh of relief is cut off by a pillow thumping against his shoulder. He looks up and sees Keith, giggling and wrapped in a blanket. Shiro can’t help laughing: Keith's big eyes are blinking so excitedly, his giddiness infectious. 

Together, they stack cushions and pillows and then drape the blankets over them. Stepping back, they admire their handiwork. It's lopsided, but -- perfect. 

Frowning, Keith toes the pile. “We should add chairs or something. For height.” 

And so two chairs are added as majestic pillars. Keith gestures grandly. “After you.” 

Shiro crawls in, amused, and Keith follows. In the fort, the world outside seems to be muffled. Or maybe the storm’s over. 

Or maybe Shiro’s just never been able to think with Keith around. 

In the dim light, Keith is a wash of blue watercolor; Shiro wants to kiss the navy contour of his cheekbones, rest in the dark indigo of his hair. They’re not kids anymore, far from it, but Keith looks like he belongs here, in the ethereal sweeping of sheets and shadows.

“What?” Keith says softly.

“Nothing,” Shiro says. “Just — looking at you.” 

“Like what you see?” Keith teases, and Shiro finds bravery in tangling his fingers with Keith’s. He rests his forehead on Keith’s shoulder, whispers into red cloth. 

“Yeah. I do. And I feel okay. Like I’m safe even though we’re just surrounded by blankets.” 

“That’s good.” Keith leans against Shiro. “Tell me if this is okay?”

“It’s okay. Thanks.” Shiro says. “Maybe it's you, and not the blankets. That makes me feel safe.” 

_ Maybe,  _ he says, like Keith isn’t his everything, 

“You’re the one that makes me feel safe,” Keith says quietly. “Always have.” 

Shiro can’t believe it. “But it was always you protecting me. Coming in swinging and all that -- I thought you were so cool. You always saved me.” 

“I think you’re forgetting that you’d jump in with me,” Keith laughs. “You’re the cool one, Shiro. We saved each other.” 

“I can handle that.” Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand. “I like the sound of that.” 

“It’s true,” Keith says. His eyelashes cast a fluttering shadow as he blinks up at Shiro. “I mean it.” 

Something swells, and breaks. 

“You look beautiful,” Shiro blurts out. 

“What?” 

Shiro closes his eyes. Steels himself. Keith is still there, prettily bewildered, when he opens his eyes again. 

“You’re beautiful,” Shiro says. 

“You think I’m beautiful?” Keith breathes, shyness blooming red, like he isn’t every constellation Shiro looks at, like he isn’t every song Shiro hears. 

“You’re more than beautiful,” Shiro says, cups Keith’s cheek in his hand. “I don’t even know how to say it.” 

“I do,” Keith whispers, and kisses him.

If the pillowfort is a new, hidden world, with just the two of them, the kiss is a consuming pinprick in that world. All Shiro can feel is soft lips and calloused fingers -- the feeling somehow so familiar, a dream imagined into reality -- 

“Shiro,” Keith says softly. “Shiro.”

Drawing him in again and again. A faithful moon in orbit. 

_ I love you. _

  
  


 


End file.
